Heart and Soul
by Coseepo
Summary: John is arrested for murder, so Sherlock starts looking into it. However, as the evidence piles up, Sherlock is forced to make a choice: does he trust his mind... or his heart? T for safety. I've written it as friendship, but could be interpreted as slash
1. Chapter 1

**MEGA SHORT CHAPTER! Yeah, I do introductory chapters now. You might have to put up with long update times, as I suffer from bad writer's block. I'll try not to let it get the better of me though.**

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><p>Sherlock looked at his watch, disgruntled. Three hours. <em>Three hours<em> John had been gone. He had only been going for a walk. Sherlock's phone had rung two hours ago. He _needed_ John to pass it to him. If he was this late, the text was, in all likelihood, from him.  
>Sighing, he got up and picked it up. Huh. Lestrade.<br>He hit the redial button and put the phone to his ear.  
>"What is it?"<br>"Sherlock. So good of you to finally call… there's been a murder."  
>"I'm busy. I'm waiting in for John."<br>There was a sort of pained sigh from Lestrade's end.  
>"Sherlock… that's not exactly why we need you."<br>"That's the only reason you ever need me," said Sherlock, sharply, growing suspicious.  
>"Sherlock, if you'll be quiet for just a moment… this is… important."<br>Sherlock didn't say anything. He had never heard Lestrade so distracted.  
>"We've arrested John. Nothing's permanent yet, he's just a suspect, but… Sherlock?"<br>In the living room of 221B, Lestrade's voice called unheard from Sherlock's discarded phone, and the front door slammed shut.

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><p><strong>R and R?<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Slightly longer chapter, still quite short. Also, just to warn you: I know how this is going to turn out, but I don't know how I will get there. Anyway...**

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><p>"Lestrade?" Sherlock bellowed, striding through the halls of Scotland Yard. "Lestrade!"<p>

He glanced around him as he hurried, looking into the rooms for anyone he knew. He very-near flew round the corner, crashing straight into the person coming the opposite way.

"Ah. Freak. Have to say, of the two of you, I didn't think it would be your little lackey who killed someone."

He balled his hands into tight fists, jaw set, eyes darting quickly over her face, searching. "Sally. Where's Lestrade, what happened?" His voice was low and urgent.

"What _happened_ was that your-friend-the-doctor was caught red-handed. Gun in his hand, body fresh in front of him." She said it almost with relish.

"Sally…" came a stern, reprimanding voice. Sherlock looked up.

"Lestrade. Could you just -" he stopped, and exhaled through his nose, slowly. "Look, just tell me exactly what happened."

Lestrade eyed Sally. "Come on. Let's go somewhere more private."

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><p>They entered a small room, and Lestrade took his place behind the desk.<p>

"Please take a seat, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't. "Tell me what happened," he repeated, standing near the door.

The DI sighed. "It doesn't look good. As ineloquently as Sally put it, what she said was true. We got a report of some kind of commotion going on, and by the time we got there it was John, in a locked room with a dead woman, holding his gun."

"Was it the gun that killed her?"

"We don't know. We haven't got the ballistics back ye-"

"When will you get them back?"

"Soon."

"How soon?" Every question Sherlock was low, and fast, and said as a statement rather than a question.

"Just… soon, Sherlock. Look, you can help, you can talk to John, you can investigate the crime scene, you -"

"Then _why aren't we doing those things now_, let's go, let's _do it!" _he roared, slamming his hand against the wall in a fit of emotion.

"Sherlock, calm down," said Lestrade, getting up.

"I AM PERFECTLY CALM!"

Lestrade threw himself forwards and grabbed the younger man's shoulders tightly. "_Sherlock._ Look, you're not gonna be able to help if you're like this. Don't let your emotions get the better of you." He released Sherlock's shoulders. "Come on. Let's go see John."

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><p>Lestrade silently unlocked the peeling door and swung it open, so that Sherlock, standing almost directly in the doorway, was the only thing the occupant of the room could see.<p>

John, sitting on the middle of the bed opposite the door, raised his head. His sombre face broke with relief when he saw his flatmate.

"Sherlock…"

He got up and made like he was going to embrace him, but Sherlock flinched away, staring at him as if he had never seen him before. John's face fell.

"Sherlock?"

"Tell me what happened, John," he said, still eying him warily.

"Sherlock… you don't…"

Suddenly Sherlock's surface broke, and a desperation reached his eyes as he grabbed the doctor's wrists.

"Tell me the truth, Join. Did you kill her?" He began to jerk his wrists at almost every word. "I mean, honestly, did you? Really?"

"What? Sherlock, get off -"

"_Did you_?"

John sighed and looked at him straight in the eye. "No Sherlock, I did not kill her." He pulled his wrists out of his grip. "At least, I don't think so…"

He turned around and returned to sitting on his bed, somewhat disappointed with his friend's reaction.

"What do you mean, 'you don't think so'?" asked Sherlock, stepping cautiously further into the room.

John bit his lip and looked away to the corner of the room. "I… I don't remember. Okay?"

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><p><strong>Please R &amp; R! Seriously, even if it is just a word, you have no idea how high I get off them.<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**So, it's uh... it's been a while. Sorry. I've been ridiculously busy recently, particularly now we've started getting homework again, and to be perfectly honest I was having a few issues with this chapter. Might be a while until the next, too, because I haven't updated ANY of my stories in ages. Enjoy this x**

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><p>Sherlock stared at John. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, entire face enunciating the word. "<em>What?<em>"

"I don't know. I was just taking a walk and then there was a stand giving out free samples, and I tasted one, and then…" He shook his head. "…Nothing. Until I woke up in a room with a dead woman."

Sherlock took an involuntary sort of stagger backwards. He looked away. "John. You do realise what you've just said means."

He glanced up, keeping his head faced away. John looked back at him, and then at the floor. He nodded.

Lestrade, standing awkwardly by the door, cleared his throat. Both men turned their heads sharply towards him.

"If you're done here, the crime scene is now ready for you to investigate."

Sherlock looked almost disdainfully at John. "Yes. I'm ready to go."

He was about to turn around, when something caught his eye. "John. What happened to your belt?"

John looked down at his waist. "I… don't know," he said, surprised to see a rough piece of rope tied through his trouser loops.

Sherlock made a non-committal noise, turned on his heel and walked from the room.

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><p>Looking at the plain white room and knowing that John could have killed someone there made Sherlock feel ill.<p>

His eyes drank in information; blood on the floor; from the amount and the way it sprayed probably all from the gunshot wound of the woman lying nearby. The only other mark on the concrete floor was a black scuff mark, of a black leather army-style boot – like the ones Sherlock had noted John had unusually opted to wear that morning. He frowned. There was no sign of anyone else being in the room. It didn't prove that there hadn't been, of course, but there was nothing that he could immediately use.

Lestrade stood silently in the corner, hands held behind his back, watching the young detective as his silver eyes darted around the room, before sweeping around to investigate the lock.

"And you say it was locked from the _in_side, Lestrade?"

"Yes, that's right," he replied, stepping slowly over.

"Impossible," said Sherlock, flatly, straightening up, though his mouth was stretched in a triumphant line.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows and waited.

"Tell me, Inspector. Were you here when John was arrested?"

"No, I was at Scotland Yard."

Sherlock turned swiftly around, and indicated the door flippantly with his hand. "For a start, this door shows no sign of any damage or force, so it seems surprising that your men were able to get in to make the arrest. Further," – he pulled the door open, showing Lestrade both sides – "there are only scratches around the keyhole on the _out_side of the door, the last time the inside lock was used was several years ago."

Lestrade's face fell. "Sherlock," he said, softly, reaching a hand out.

"…And if it wasn't locked from the inside, that means someone lied, possibly someone on the force. I'd like to say Anderson, but I know it wasn't, because -"

"_Sherlock._" Lestrade lightly gripped the younger man's shoulders. Sherlock stared back.

Lestrade smiled gently, and removed his hands. "Sherlock. Look." He pointed to the top of the door, and Sherlock followed his hand. There was a bolt, hanging half off the door where it had been forced. Sherlock's mouth opened and he turned paler than usual. He stared at Lestrade, then back at the bolt, then back at Lestrade again. His eyes suddenly flitted away to the floor and he closed his mouth, swallowed, coughed uncomfortably. The corners of his lips tugged down.

"Sherlock," said Lestrade, sympathetically. "Sherlock, it's alright. It's understandable for you to make mistakes, you know?"

Sherlock shook his head shortly and turned on his heel. He set to silently investigating the walls.

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><p><strong>Please R&amp;R! As I said, I have loads of stories at the mo, so the more reviews I get the sooner the next chapter comes.<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry I took so long to update, but I recieved bad news recently which meant I didn't really feel like writing. That's also why this is quite short, so I'm sorry about that. Anyway, this seems like a filler chapter, but it honestly isn't, there are some important details for my more eager-eyed readers...**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Obviously. This is a fanfiction website.**

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><p>Detail. Details. Details were important. God was in the detail. Sherlock didn't believe in God. That wasn't important. Had to know what happened.<p>

Scuff marks at the bottom of the wall. A small dent as if something had ricocheted off. Small sections where the whitewash had flaked. All irrelevant. Store them just in case.

He knelt down beside the body of the woman, always searching, always scanning. Her hair was dishevelled. Slight saliva tracks from the left corner of the mouth – formed just after death. Bullet wound in left pap. His gaze travelled down her arms. She was a teacher, crumbs from a hurried lunch hours before she was killed, pen marks on her hands, small black marks on the tiny fibres of her sleeve from a whiteboard, an analogue watch because the clock would be behind her. A watch. _A watch. _He looked at the watch. The watch had stopped.

What time? _Half-past six. _

"What's the official T.o.D. of this woman?"

Lestrade checked his notes. "Dead on seven. No pun intended."

Without replying, Sherlock unfastened the watch, placed it in an evidence bag and put the bag into his pocket.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Er, Sherlock?"

The detective looked at him blankly.

"You can't just take evidence from the crime scene."

Sherlock's expression did not change. The police officer looked at him expectantly for a full minute, at which point the younger man coughed.

"Would it be acceptable to arrange an interrogation of John?"

Lestrade sighed. "Of course, Sherlock. Give me five minutes."

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><p>John looked up hopefully as the door opened, but on seeing his friend's severe, almost expressionless face, his own changed to one of grim determination.<p>

"How's it going?"

Sherlock's eyes flitted up and down, examining him. Again, John felt as if the man had never seen him before.

"Not much has happened as of yet. I have studied the crime scene and confirmed what I was told." He threw a photograph at John. "This is the victim. Do you know her?"

John picked it up from the ground where it had fallen. On seeing the woman, his face seemed to droop, mouth opening. "_Je_sus." He squeezed the bridge of his nose with his other hand, closing his eyes and sighing deeply. "She's… Christ." He opened his eyes, dropping his hands into his lap and looking straight into his friend's eyes. "She's a patient from my surgery. Comes in once a month. Jesus…"

Sherlock drew his lips tightly. "And have you ever had any disagreements with her?"

"No," he sighed, wearily. "No, we were… wait, what? Sherlock, you're honestly looking into motives for me killing her?"

"Just following protocol." John noticed how fast the reply came, and folded his arms across his chest.

"Sherlock, you've never followed protocol. You don't even _have_ protocol. You're not a police officer."

The younger man looked down at the floor, biting his lip. "What do you want me to do, John?" He glanced up again, meeting the army doctor's gaze, eyes shining. "How do you _expect me_ to fix this?"

John smiled sadly. "Just find the truth. And I'll just hope it's a good one."

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><p><strong>R and R pretty please!<strong>


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